


Reminders

by raiyana



Series: Dworin 17 [1]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dworin Week, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-11-29 15:26:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11443713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: Dworin Week '17Prompt: BodyTattoos and thinking.





	Reminders

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Thorin's Tattoo](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/305688) by Calaverna. 



> Thorin's tattoo was created by Calaverna on tumblr, though I changed the story to fit my own headcanon. Thanks for allowing me to use your art!

”I don’t understand why you need a reminder,” Thorin stated, as he walked through the door of Dwalin’s room, quite uncaring – beyond an appreciative glance at his firm body – that Dwalin was naked as the day he was born, fresh out of a bath. “I don’t think it is something we will ever forget.” He shuddered lightly; the images that lurked behind his eyes whenever he thought of his brother, his cousin, his _kin_ , were not ones Thorin thought he would ever forget, even though he wished to. He wished – so fervently he had spoken of it to no one – that he could remember Frerin as he had been; a study in sunlight, golden hair, toffee eyes, and a smile that lit up the world. Instead, his memories were tainted by a pale face, the ghost of a laugh seeming to hover around chapped lips, and blood so vividly crimson as it stained his hands that sometimes he feared it would never wash off completely.

“I do not forget, Thorin.” Dwalin replied, neither surprised by Thorin’s presence nor unaware of the eyes the followed his every move as he dropped his towel and began to dress. “But I think… I think I need there to be a reminder, a permanent mark that _I_ chose, rather than the scars I earned in battle.” Thorin looked thoughtful for a minute, before nodding tightly. Dwalin sat easily on a stool, his back towards Thorin as he combed through the wet strands of his hair.

“I think…” Thorin said, as he bent to press a kiss to the top of Dwalin’s head. Flicking open the slightly damp towel, Thorin spread it around Dwalin’s shoulders. “Sometimes, you are very wise, Dwalin Fundinul.” Smirking at Dwalin in the small mirror on the wall before them, liberated from Dís’s room against a promise of a week’s desserts, Thorin petted the warrior’s crest that now lay flat on Dwalin’s head. “I will miss playing with your hair though, **Madtûnê**[1],” he whispered, nipping Dwalin’s ear lightly. Dwalin paused in the task of oiling his unadorned beard, staring at Thorin's dark head in the mirror as his lover continued to tease him. “Will you grow out the sides instead?” Thorin kept up his teasing treatment until the warrior beneath his tongue grumbled his assent.

“Fine!” Dwalin rumbled, flushing slightly when he spotted Thorin’s pleased grin. “Now get with the cuttin’, yer majesty.” His mock stern glare did nothing to dim Thorin’s smile.

“As you wish, **halwmugrê** ,” the Prince acquiesced, gripping the scissors and turning serious once more as he began to cut the long locks from Dwalin’s head. The warrior did not move, watching in silence as the crest he had earned when he joined the ranks of Erebor’s **‘Azaghâl**[2] was cut from his head, never to return.  On the table before them, shaving brush and razor waited, along with a cream Dwalin had bartered from his cousin Óin, to soothe the newly shorn skin.

 

Three days later, he sat still once more, though the Dwarf behind him was a different one, and his hands held inked needles instead of a blade.

 

* * *

 

 

The Gates of Moria was not his first tattoo; his knuckles already sported dark lines and the runes of their ancient war cries, but secretly, it was Dwalin’s favourite. It would not be the last time he placed himself at the mercy of needles either, as he slowly found new designs to grace his scarred flesh; the thick, sure lines flowing in intricate Dwarven patterns across his skin. Some figures were difficult to discern for those who did not know how to look, and some would be bisected by scars in the years and battles to come, but each one became part of the greater whole somehow.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Thorin was far choosier when it came to the ink that decorated his own skin. He had watched Dwalin’s complicated geometric shapes becoming animals, becoming words, becoming memory made flesh, but he did not have the same need for visible reminders.

He carried the mark of Durin, as traditional for the King and the Heir, the seven stars above the anvil of his Line, drawn around his navel in black ink with silver stars. The tattoo had been made on his twentieth Name-Day, when he was deemed Battle-Ready – physically grown, if a bit on the scrawnier side, but he would continue to grow in muscle-mass as he aged.

When Thraín disappeared and Thorin was left as the ruler of Durin’s Folk, the stars should have been outlined in gold, for the king, but Thorin’s steadfast belief in Thraín’s survival meant the Prince-who-was-King would not change the marker of his status until he had conclusive proof.

The Raven that spread its wings across his shoulders was a different thing entirely.

The relationship between Durin’s Folk and the Ravens – **Bahazanâsh** – was older than any Dwarf knew. The first birds had been given speech by the Elves of Eregion, whose close friendship with the Dwarrow of Khazad-dûm meant that the black birds were often paid to deliver messages between the Dwarrowdelf and the Lord of Hollinn. When Eregion fell, the Ravens remained. Finding a new home in what became known as Kark-Zarakh, the Ravens enjoyed a mutually beneficial relationship with the Dwarrow of Durin’s Folk. After the Fall, the Ravens volunteered to scout for the masses of displaced refugees, bringing warnings and messages back and forth with the speed of a wing. So great was the gratitude of the Dwarrow that when Erebor had been settled, the Ravens were given a new tower, known as Ravenhill, where the Dwarrow kept a watch-post and the Ravens made their nests. King Thorin I, ensured that his friends were well-fed, and in return, the Ravens brought him word from his allies and reports of the things they witnessed across the lands surrounding the Lonely Mountain. During Thorin I’s reign, he became affectionately known as The Raven King among the other clans, an epithet he embraced to the fullest, fashioning his crown with stylised raven-wings in dark iron and carving an image of the bird in flight into the back of his throne. His son and grandson carried on the amicable relationship, until ‘The Raven’ was almost synonymous with the King of Durin’s Folk, though the Court had been moved to the Grey Mountains in the meantime. The Ravens followed, building new nests, but the oldest line remained in Erebor, inhabiting the Ravenhill Tower and continuing to help those who remained in Erebor. 

When Thorin was young, he began dreaming of bits of memory that belonged to the first Thorin. When he had discovered the old throne in a dusty storeroom in Erebor, he had felt an oddly visceral connection to the stylized depiction of the bird. He had designed a smaller version to use as his own maker’s mark, drawing the symbol absolutely _everywhere_. It was the inspiration for Dwalin to call him raven as a pet-name, but he had not toyed with the idea of marking _himself_ with the bird until they had been long-settled in Ered Luin. By then, he had almost forgotten that the original raven had not truly been his own mark, changing his version over the years until he was entirely satisfied with the design. He might never regain the Raven Crown, but the Line of the Raven King continued.

 

Notes:

[1] My brave one.

[2] People who are soldiers/warriors by profession.


End file.
